


hold fast

by gingersprite



Series: stronger for having been broken [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Scars, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Scars tell a story; that doesn't mean the story is pleasant. Even if a scar can't be removed, it can be altered.





	hold fast

**Author's Note:**

> Theonsa week day five, prompt: steel
> 
> The rating is probably unwarranted, but I figured better safe and sorry: there's references to Ramsay and sexual abuse, but it's not graphic. The tattoo process isn't described, but I recognize that some people have phobias about needles, so keep that in mind if it applies to you!

As with most unusual ideas, it was Yara who suggested it. She had first thought about it after Theon made his way back to her, when she spied his mutilated skin first-hand. It had been entirely on accident, as he was still timid about being touched or examined too closely; but they shared a ship’s cabin enough times, and even though he tried to hide them the scars were hard to miss. Especially when they took up so much of his body.

Scars among the Ironborn were a typical, even expected sight. Even without their traditional reaving ways, working on ships as often as they did was bound to result in some injuries. No sailor wanted to have an extensive injury, but it was also true that the more gruesome scars got the most attention. Usually, those were the ones that came with the best stories.

Yara could tell without even asking that none of Theon’s scars makes for a good story. The strips torn by a lash, the knotted swatches made by a flaying knife; there was certainly a story to them, but it’s not the sort anyone wanted to hear. It was the X’s that she hated the most, one on each shoulder, though they couldn’t have been the most painful wound he received. Every time Yara chanced to see them, she felt her blood begin to boil.

Ramsay Bolton had branded her brother like a dog.

The idea had come to her one night while they were docked at port, watching the crew carousing and whoring with the locals. Theon’s scars were far too deep to be healed the way vain nobles used creams to lessen discoloration from spots, but perhaps they could be altered in some way. Not all of them, of course, there were so many; just the X’s. So he wouldn’t have to bear that monster’s brand anymore.

There wasn’t any time, though, so Yara kept quiet about it. They had a job to do, they couldn’t piss away what little time they had on something cosmetic; and as it was, she was keeping Theon steady just by the skin of her teeth. Asking him to make such a choice ran the risk of Theon becoming lost to her, shrinking back into the shell the Bolton bastard had made. So she would wait for when the time was be right; if they even lived that long.

\---

“A tattoo?” Sansa queried, reading Yara’s letter with a furrowed brow. Theon sighed.

“Tattoos,” he corrected. “It’s fairly common among sailors to get them for good luck, or identification. These’d be different, though. To cover up some of the- the scars.”

“Sounds painful,” she said, careful not to sound judgmental. Frankly, the idea seemed rather silly to her, covering up a scar with another one. And how exactly were they supposed to bring luck? Sansa had learned enough from patching up wounded Northmen to know that infection could be just as deadly as a blade, if not even more. “How does she propose you go about this? That is, if you decide you want to.”

“Yara knows people,” he said vaguely. “She found a man to fix my teeth on our way to Meereen, but that was more urgent. I’m certain she could arrange for someone to do this, someone skilled.”

Theon was standing by the solar window, staring aimlessly down at the courtyard below. He fidgeted with his hands, rubbing at the stumps of his missing fingers. Sansa let the letter drop to her desk and went to him, allowing the click of her heels on the stone to announce her movements. Her hand skimmed along his lower back, just enough so he could choose to let her in; with a slight turn of his body, he granted her access. Sansa molded her chest to his back, sliding her hands down the length of his arms until their hands met. With their hands gripped together, she drew their arms across his middle; the warmth of her body and the slight pressure of their embrace anchored him.

“What are you thinking about, darling?” Sansa asked, her chin tucked over his shoulder. Her breath was light and steady against his cheek; he could smell the herbs in the pigeon pie she’d had for supper.

“I don’t know how you can stand the sight of them,” he whispered. “My scars. I can hardly bear to look at them myself.”

“Do you find my scars so hideous?” Theon shuddered at the question, though she’d said it without reproach; he hadn’t been there when all of her scars were made- not the slices across her back when the Kingsguard’s blows broke the skin, nor the line the Hound’s sword made against her neck- but he’d seen enough. Scratches along her back, bite marks on her collarbone and breasts… he’d brought her warm, wet cloths and salves during those endless days, even going so far as to clean her wounds himself when she was too weak to do so. 

Sometimes when they made love, he’d see those scars, and the memory of their making almost brought him to tears; he’d lave his tongue over them and blow cold breaths on the wet skin just to feel her little shiver, proof that she was alive. There was no inch of her that Theon couldn’t love.

“Never.” He swore.

“Then surely you can imagine why your scars have no bearing on my feelings towards you,” Sansa said. “Every scar is a wound you _survived_. Dead men don’t have such a luxury.”

“That may be so,” he admitted. “I don’t mind some of them as much as others. But those crosses… he marked me as his. So I wouldn’t forget who made me. And every time I see them, I’m reminded of it, and the way he smiled when he…”

“Theon,” Sansa’s voice was firm; not angry, just solid enough that there was no mistaking her words. His name was Theon. “You are your own man, the man I love. He doesn’t get to have any claim over you.”

Theon squeezed her hands tighter, as much as his trembling fingers allowed. She felt like a suit of armor around his body; he still wasn’t entirely sure someone as ruined as he deserved such protection, but he’d accept it for as long as she chose to give it.

“I don’t- I don’t want his mark on me,” he gasped. “I’m not his to own. I’m not his dog.”

“That’s right, love.” Sansa whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there, and he could feel the shape her mouth made as words tumbled forth. 

_Beautiful. Dearest. I love you. Theon._

Like a child stacking wooden blocks into a tower, Theon put himself back together, breathing in time with Sansa until he was steady enough to turn in the circle of their arms. Their foreheads pressed together, their noses slotted side by side.

“If… if I chose to do this,” he hedged, eyes squeezed shut. “Would you stay with me?”

“Always,” Sansa replied. “I just want you to be alright with yourself. To see what I see when I look at you.”

“Oh?” he hummed. It wasn’t so much a question as it was sound to fill the silence, but Sansa answered it anyway.

“My husband. The man I love.”

\---

Once Theon had made his decision, they went about making preparations; as with anything, Sansa did her research. She read what books Winterfell’s library contained on the subject- which wasn’t many- and sent letters to Rodrik Harlaw with all the questions books and Maester Wolkan couldn’t answer. The Ironborn called the lord of Harlaw ‘Rodrik the Reader’, a moniker that even they couldn’t seem to decide whether it was meant in mockery or praise.

Whatever their intentions, Rodrik never let them stop him; the library in the Ten Towers was massive, and constantly being added to. Rodrik had collected texts from every region in Westeros on just about every subject; once he exhausted those, he’d moved on to the other continents, until he had books from every corner of the known world. In their letters, he taught her about the history of tattooing among the Ironborn, the process by which it was accomplished, and some of the meanings behind common designs: anchors to keep a sailor grounded, swallows so that they would always find their way home. Some who managed to sail to Yi Ti or Asshai came back with star maps on their hands that they swore were more reliable than any compass or sextant.

Theon didn’t have any particular designs in mind; he just wanted the X’s covered up. So he left that part up to Sansa, trusting her to come up with something she knew he’d like. Sansa had always loved the tactile nature of embroidery, but she’d been known to dabble in sketches. She poured over the letters Rodrik sent her, many of which contained sketches of his own, searching for inspiration.

Sansa worked on the designs during whatever free time she had. Theon didn’t look at the sketches while they were in progress, but he liked to watch her work, the scratching of her pencil on paper becoming almost soothing. He liked her first attempts fine, but she was determined to keep at it, until she came up with designs that put him at a loss for words.

“What do you think?” Sansa asked tentatively, scrutinizing his expression as he looked over the designs. After a lot of coaxing, Theon had admitted that he liked the idea of something different for each arm, so she bounced back and forth between ideas. The Ironborn didn’t care much for natal days, but they put a lot of stock in the star sign someone was born under. Theon’s resembled a pair of fish and was considered especially fortuitous; she wasn’t certain he took such superstitions seriously, but as a boy he’d been quite proud of it, so it seemed only right that something of cultural significance cover up Ramsay’s mark. 

As for the other design, she drew from the Islands’ lore. The Ironborn claimed descent from the legendary Grey King, who ruled the Iron Islands a thousand years. He was said to have taken a mermaid to wife, and the children of their union were equally suited for both land and sea. For someone like Theon who had always been uncertain of where he belonged, such a legend may have felt like a cruel jape at his expense- or, it could be a reminder that there had been someone else who learned to live in two worlds.

Theon ghosted a finger over the sketched mermaid’s tail, careful not to smudge the charcoal. Sansa waited, not wanting to distract him; their eyes met over edge of the paper, and she had her answer.

Pride glowed in her smile. “I’ll send a raven to Yara.”

\---

The artist was a man called Arnulf; he was of about sixty years, with grey eyes so pale they seemed almost colorless and a steadiness to his hands that belied his age. His apprentice, a young man named Laithe who was somewhere around ten and six years, carried a large waterproof satchel with his master’s tools.

When Sansa presented him with her designs, Arnulf nodded appreciatively and set about making the necessary adjustments. At Maester Wolkan’s recommendations, they’d set up his workspace for the task; the surfaces were designed for easy cleaning, which was vital to preventing infection. Laithe began setting up the artist’s workspace for him, then called Theon over.

Theon’s face paled a little when he caught sight of the collection of steel needles, but he didn’t let that stop him. He was shirtless under the robe he wore, as a means of maintaining some privacy while Arnulf worked. The old man examined the quality of his canvas with probing fingers, testing the scarring.

“They’re as healed as they’ll ever be,” he declared. “Should be fine to work over. Black and blue pigments will take best, and I can also bring in some greens. I’ve adjusted the designs a little- no major changes, just so’s the work will transfer nice. Your lady has a talent.” He shot Sansa an appreciative smile, one which she returned from where she stood at Theon’s side, her hand gripping his.

Laithe got Sansa a chair while Arnulf readied his tools. 

“You’ll want to sit, m’lady, this can take a while,” the boy advised. “Does m’lord have any questions?”

Theon’s eyes darted between Arnulf and Sansa nervously; she gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, all while trying not to be intimidated by the tools that would momentarily be on his skin. Sansa tried to think of them not as weapons that harmed, but as needles like her own favorite tools. She had always drawn strength from her craft, and in turn used it to strengthen others. While she didn’t feel the same need to cover up her own scars, she intimately understood the desire to erase all traces of the man who abused them both.

“The merling,” Theon said. “Can you make her hair red?” Sansa startled in her chair, this being the first time he suggested it. 

Arnulf considered momentarily, looking over at his tools. “Such color fades faster, but aye, I can do it, if you’re alright with that.”

Theon gave a short, firm nod, not trusting himself to speak with a steady voice. He chanced a small smile at Sansa. She brought their clasped hands up to her lips, not breaking eye contact, the entire time looking at him like he was the bravest man she’d ever known. 

Sometimes, Theon felt he almost could be.

**Author's Note:**

> Tattoos have existed in almost every human culture, though the meanings behind them vary greatly. The oldest evidence of tattooing is found on the European ice mummy called Ötzi, who lived approximately 5,300 years ago.
> 
> The meanings behind the designs Rodrik tells Sansa about, as well as the fic title, were inspired by those popular among Western sailors, who started getting tattoos in the 16th century after seeing them on Pacific Islanders. The navigational hand tattoos are a direct reference to a specific indigenous culture that practices this, which I'd tell you the name of except Google is being an ass and won't tell me (even though I know for a FACT that this is true!). I'd suggest you look it up for yourself except... yeah.


End file.
